


Don't You Trust Me?

by LadyoftheSea



Series: Going a Little Mad [5]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Breathplay, Creampie, Daddy Kink, Double Penetration, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Knifeplay, Masochism, Murder, Overstimulation, POV Joker (DCU), Power Play, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Sadism, Sex Toys, Spanking, Submission, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:27:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24047410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyoftheSea/pseuds/LadyoftheSea
Summary: If there’s one thing the Joker hates above everything else, it’s dependency. When one of his men makes an off-handed remark, he decides he has a point to prove.He doesn’tneedyou.He doesn’tneedanything.But it’s a funny world we live in, and there are still some unexpected curves even he hasn’t mastered yet.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Original Female Character(s), Joker (DCU)/Reader, Joker (DCU)/You, Joker/You
Series: Going a Little Mad [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1595734
Comments: 50
Kudos: 181





	Don't You Trust Me?

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the tags, folks! This is J, we might love him, but he's a mass-murdering, manipulative, and violent dude. If you're looking for him to be a complete softy, you're probably looking in the wrong place 🙃. 
> 
>   
> _Don’t erase, my darling,_  
>  _your sin_  
>  _with your tears;_  
>  _because sin is fertile;_  
>  _it carries the indestructible_  
>  _colors of terror_  
>  _to dreams;_  
>  _opening for itself_  
>  _a dark path_  
>  _it finds an abyss_  
>  _in the purest water;_  
>  _it trusts chaos;_
> 
> “Two Things” - Cemal Süreya

The Joker's annoyed. Granted, it isn’t very _hard_ to make that happen. His mood is like the tide, unassuming until it pulls you under and beats you to a bloody pulp against the craggy rocks or whips itself into a typhoon that desolates half the shore in its rage before subsiding until one would never be able to tell at all that it had been more than a gentle lapping against the sand. 

But, still. 

He _is_ capable of being patient. When it suits him, of course. Today isn’t one of those days. 

It started innocuously enough, really. He’d been gone for about three days, leaving you at his current humble abode to your own devices. He had people to get you food, basic amenities—all you had to do was put it on a list and leave it in the mailbox. He made sure you were taken care of in the ways he saw fit—he wasn’t a _monster_ or anything. 

_Well, not completely._

And he didn’t particularly care about _what_ you did as long as it was what you were told, like a _good girl_. Y'know, the _basics_. Don't go outside, don't cause any trouble— _that's_ my _job—_ don't _talk_ to anyone unless you were OK with a _quick_ little demonstration on how to most efficiently pull out someone's _spleen_ through their throat. _He'd_ have a ball with that, and he almost regretted not getting you to watch when he had his special _alone time_ with… what's-his-face, the bastard who would've been better off drowning—and making you know _exactly_ the lengths he'd go to for you, _exactly_ who you belong to. But, in the end, he was glad he didn't. There's plenty of time to show you the delicious dolor that comes with witnessing murder, to teach you an appreciation for violence. Watching you cower underneath him in the kitchen while the bloodlust wore off and leaving one last little unknowing memento of your _date-gone-wrong_ in the form of a few bloody stains on your skin was enough for him. 

_For now._

So colour the Joker _surprised_ when he got back— _not caked in blood for once, I might add—_ and found you sitting on the ratty LaZboy, head bent at some task and groaning in frustration. He liked to announce his presence. _Usually._ Call it the showman in him, the performer looking for his accolades. But, there were other times when using his quiet ability to stand stock-still and _wait_ while you went along unaware made it the more delectable option—especially when you'd jump in surprise when you finally noticed him standing there haunting the doorway, watching your expression of fear before it ebbed into uncertainty and then tentative eagerness. It was… _mouthwatering_. 

Today is one such occasion where being quiet suited him best. He was in a good mood initially, feeling _generous,_ and he had a specific craving that needed to be sated. 

_You._

He's a living terror for most people he encounters. Some of his prey requires more effort than others, yes, but he never has to try very hard to make you have that split-second, knee-jerk reaction of fear, that all encompassing doubt that today _might_ be the day when the fun ends, before he'd kiss your neck, grab your hips, and take you in whichever way struck his fancy at the time, wiping the slate of doubt clean as you melted into him, broke a little more, and forgot it all over again. It's a fun game for him. He figures you'll work it out eventually: you aren't going _anywhere_. 

But that doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy finding new ways to play with his favourite toy. It's one of his _tamer_ hobbies; one that has you squeezing around his cock and gasping and moaning at the end of it anyway.

_That's what I call a win-win._

You didn't seem to hear the door open or his heavy steps on the stairwell to the apartment, and before he could even make a joke— _I'm good at those—_ he saw what you were so engrossed in. 

You were knitting. 

_Knitting._

Colourful balls of yarn strewn about in a tangled mess, you sat in the middle of it all with a heap of some misshapen thing in your lap, hair falling around your face prettily as you worked the thick wool around the two plastic needles grasped tightly between your fingers. He vaguely remembered telling you to get a hobby of your own, and he _thought_ he used knitting as an example ( _devil's in the details, isn't it?)_ , but he hadn't actually expected you to _do_ it. 

"You're back," you said, finally looking up to catch sight of him in the front doorway. You smiled, big and wide. 

His tongue licked the corner of his mouth, taking in that familiar taste of salt and greasepaint, the comforting dips and rises of his scars, the thick cords he worked between his gritted teeth. He hadn't caught you by surprise like he'd wanted, but he was starting to reconsider leaving you for all those long periods of time. If you were always _this_ excited to see him, he'd have you sitting on his cock all day until your heart gave out, and then he'd _really_ get nothing done. 

_Can't have that, can we?_

"Whatchya got there?" he asked, nodding to the purple and green mass in your hands. It was useless trying to swallow down the heat licking the inside of his skin, waiting to burst out and incinerate, but he cracked his neck and tried anyway. 

"Oh, I—it's supposed to be a surprise, but—" 

The Joker doesn't _do_ surprises, not unless _he's_ the one holding all the secrets and strings. Just like he can be deathly quiet when he wants, he can be just as quick. He was next to you and ripping the thing out of your loose grip in the time it took you to blink, holding it up as comprehension smacked him in the face. 

He was holding a sweater. Well, _three-quarters_ of a sweater. Both arms were done but the torso wasn't finished; the purple and green stripes were lopsided and uneven, the stitches inconsistent, but it was clear you were making it for him. It was vaguely in his size. And, once he spared an extra glance around the room, he saw that you'd been busy. Somehow, in all of the three days he was gone, you'd managed to make a throw blanket (which was equally as messy, but at least it was a solid colour) and a doily. _A_ _doily._ Like this was fucking _Downton Abbey._

"It's not finished yet, but I thought… since it's still cold out…" You petered out, and the Joker dragged his gaze from the sweater to you. Your cheeks were flushed, hands wrung together, your bottom lip between your teeth. You _genuinely_ cared if he liked it or not, hoping to get a word of appreciation or praise. 

You were so goddamn _cute,_ so fucking _adorable_ right then that he wanted to toss you out the goddamn window. 

_But that would make things too_ easy, _wouldn’t it?_

He wasn't really sure what came over him, but it involved throwing the unfinished sweater over his shoulder and attacking your mouth with his, grabbing your ass and hoisting you up to pin you against the nearest wall. After the initial shock, you returned the kiss and ground your hips into his, your hands working under the thick layers of his jackets and loosening his tie. He didn't care about getting undressed, he just needed to bunch your long skirt around your waist and unbuckle his pants. Playfully nipping the skin of your neck, taking it between his teeth and breathing in the warm, sweet smell of you, he couldn't stop himself from biting harder when he realized you weren't wearing any panties, and he growled in smug appreciation when you panted as he stuck one gloved finger inside your slick heat. But curiosity momentarily overcame his lust. When he ran a hand under your shirt and over the soft curves of your stomach to find your bare breasts, he almost lost it. 

_Little minx._

You must've been waiting like that all day, ready for whenever he came back, your cunt aching and needy for him. The thought drove him _mad._

Giving a nipple a hard twist for good measure and chuckling when you yelped, he pulled your legs up to wrap around his waist, driving his cock into your eager hole without further preamble. You were wet enough that all you could do was let out a long moan and keening whimper at first—and he snapped his hips forward until you screamed. It felt good— _better_ than good to be buried in you to the hilt, pushing until it hurt _just right,_ until you felt like he couldn't possibly reach any further only to push past that, push past _every_ limit you thought you had, relishing the feeling like he was leaving part of his rotten soul behind inside your tight cunt when he pulled back just to drive into you again. He gripped you like he meant to tear you to pieces, rip you apart to suck the marrow from your bones, to feast on the intoxicating mix of your pain and pleasure while your blood spilled between his fingers, sticky and thick, your lips painted ruby red as he subsumed your being into his. 

From the way you were squealing out moans and urging him to go faster, holding him like he was the only thing tying you to the world, he was certain you wanted the same. 

He fucked you hard enough to leave a dent in the plaster, to bruise your arms and legs from his taut muscles and sharp bones digging into you, to imprint the pattern of the grenades lining his jacket into your chest, each swell of purple and blue a little present from him. Your head lolled to the side and your eyes squeezed shut as your sopping pussy clenched around his cock, tightening you up like a wind-up doll begging for release. 

He pinned your hands above your head when you started pulling his hair from the root, clawing to hold him any way you could. It wasn't that he didn't like pain— _we all know how I feel about that, don't we?—_ he wanted to see you writhe while you came, body squirming and looking for an anchor point to ground you and only having his cock inside you, the hammering pressure of his hips and his bruising hold around your wrists to keep you upright. The more powerless you felt, the harder you seemed to cum, and he felt it his _duty_ to fuck you until you didn't know what to do unless he was decimating you, didn’t know how to _breathe_ unless it was _him_ breathing into you, until the only thing that was real was him and him alone.

You were already begging, too. _Pleading_. 

“Slow—slow down for a second, J— _mm!—_ it feels—feels too good, _I—I can't take any more—”_

He likes it when you beg. 

_A lot._

And he was willing to oblige, but your cunt always pulled him back in, like it couldn't do without being stuffed to the brim, and you could take more. You would always take what he had to give. 

_Always._

He blamed being away and all _hot and bothered,_ the lovely little surprises you’d sprung on him, how you smelled and how you tasted and how you _spasmed_ around him for his climax approaching so quickly, but that was alright. He knew your appetite was just as raving as his once he blew past all that _self-conscious_ uncertainty. Even breaking down that barrier took less and less as the days went by, your will and your mind shaping under his not-so-gentle direction, and it was fucking _beautiful_ to witness, to watch it work so well, to have that power over you. 

He was tempted to think it was the best kind of high he's ever had—both your bodies joined in an unholy communion, some dark rite that bound you to him. _Permanently._

_"J—_ " you panted, out of breath, "I—I need you— _please—_ "

 _So_ honest _, aren't you?_

And then came his _favourite_ part. Beyond the carnality of having you envelop him completely, seeing your brows pinch together and how you bit your lip to keep from screaming just to spur him to go harder, _faster,_ until that sweet, _sweet_ moment where he almost couldn't differentiate your rapture from your agony, it was marking you as his in every way that mattered, from your skin down to your very core that made his blood _sing_. 

Biting the side of your breast through the fabric of your shirt hard enough to break the skin and stain it red, he came, pumping into you until his balls were empty and he was completely spent. You always came when he did, like your subconscious wanted every bit of him deep inside, like it somehow fed your bliss. He released your wrists to properly hold you up as you sagged against him, not unlike how you were on Halloween. 

_Ah,_ what an absolutely _delectable_ memory that made. Your eyes all big and wide, mind stuck on some other plane but your voice beckoning him close like a siren, your smile so _sweet_ and vulnerable, so _trusting_ and _cute_ in your Sailor Mars costume. He still had that somewhere, and the thought of it made him wanna dress you up just so he could fuck you in it again. You _really_ didn't know what you were asking for, not yet, but the truth of what our souls desire always has a way of worming to the surface, and he’s only too happy to help you see it for yourself.

Most of the time, he made that truth come out with the end of one of his knives at someone's throat and a hand shoved in their insides—gripping their beating hearts in his hand before crushing it completely. But he’d long admitted that he enjoyed this just as much. 

_Who says I can’t have my cake and eat it, too?_

“Oh, babygirl,” he growled in your ear, biting the lobe between his teeth when you shivered. He wasn’t unaware of the effect his voice had, the hypnotic cadence that seemed to wash over you, and he’s always been one to play to his advantages. “What would you do without me, _hmm?”_

You responded by holding him harder, hiding your face in embarrassment and adjusting your hips so that his softening cock could stay inside you just a _little_ while longer. It always left a grin on his face, watching you afterward, comparing it to when you started—a grin that wasn't too different from when he'd bask in the afterglow of a kill. Cumming inside you made his mind sharp. He was satisfied, he could think, and so he'd leave you be until the craving found its way back, coated his tongue like something sticky and sweet. 

_Like the taste of you._

You're always like this after a hard fuck. Tired. _Dopey_. So _eager_ to cling and hold him close. Your arms were loosely draped around his neck, face buried in his shoulder as you panted, eyes closed and your skin sweaty. He liked you like this. _Pliant._ Happy to please and serve. If you weren't so _boneless_ , he'd have dropped you on the floor, but his generous mood wasn't gone yet, so he carried you to your shared room, grinning at the incomprehensible babbling you were trying to articulate into a sentence. When he deposited you on the bed, none too gently— _what can I say? I like watching you_ bounce—he admired how your combined cum ran down your inner thighs in pearlescent trails, how your chest still heaved, how you struggled to sit upright and settled for laying on the pillow he shoved under your head. He stood over you, debating whether or not he'd stay with you a little longer to descend into the fog you invariably brought for an hour. 

_Can't be getting_ too _cozy, though, can we?_

No, that wouldn't do. Sometimes, you need a reminder of how all of this works. How _fickle_ his moods are. It's an illusion that requires constant maintenance, and it always leaves you coming back to him for more.

_Every. Time._

He could tell you had things to ask him—well, once you could get your mouth to work—but he didn't care. You'd nap and he’d find his way back to you later. So he pulled the messy duvet up and threw it over you and promptly turned on his heel, adjusting himself back into his trousers as he went to do what he'd intended when he first got back—go to his office and work through the next _fun_ game he had planned for Gotham. 

See, it _would've_ been a good day if it had ended there. He would've gotten you both takeout—he was too tired to cook—maybe let you curl up next to him on the couch and tell him about all these pointless crafts you made, hide his smirk as he pretended to be disinterested. You'd really taken to being his little bunny, becoming more touch-starved with every absence and aloof display, attaching yourself to him like he was God when he was back for any length of time. 

_Exactly like it should be._

But his day _didn't_ end there. 

He didn't _like_ having business meetings close to where you could overhear. He was certain you'd either be chained to a wall or dead before you'd be able to rat him out if you overheard something and decided to let that _pesky_ conscience of yours get the better of you— _paranoia's what's got me this far—_ but he didn't like those options. 

_Nope, nope, nopity-nope._

Better not to present you with them at all, keeping Eve away from the Forbidden Fruit and all that, even if he was the tempter, _the snake_. But, sometimes, necessity called for it. Like how he needed to lie low after he exited stage left with a _BANG!_ when he had an extended gander at the Diamond District Mall. 

_Ah, the memories._

So, a small group of hench-idiots gathered in the living room of the apartment later that evening. The walls were thin, he could hear you moving around the bedroom, tossing and turning on the bed even with the door closed, which meant _you_ could tell there was something going on even if you might not catch distinctive words, but he planned on this being quick. He stood in his office, digging through the assorted piles of sticky-notes, moving aside pieces meant for his homemade bombs and the new equipment he’d gotten for his chemistry set, knocking over vials of glitter— _never know when you need to_ jazz _up a party—_ when he heard his men talking in what they _thought_ were whispers. 

_They should’ve known better. I mean,_ really. 

You’d think by now they would’ve learned to keep all of their opinions to themselves, sat there like the meat-sacks they were. _Apparently,_ that's too much to ask. _Apparently,_ they never think to consider if the Joker might have above average hearing. 

_Whoops._

"What's all this?" one of them whispered. Joker liked to refer to this one as Moron No. 1. 

"Dunno,” said Moron No. 2. 

_See where I’m goin’ with this?_

"Somethin' my grandma'd make."

The Joker stopped digging, fingers hovering over the piles of clutter. He could feel his eyebrow twitching, mouth pulling down into a frown. 

"If ya say so…” 

At least Moron No. 2 had the decency to sound sheepish _. Uncomfortable._ Moron No. 1 wasn’t so smart. Not that he could expect better—the _employee_ pool was limited down to illiterate juvenile delinquents who moved onto _bigger_ and _better_ things, a few sociopaths here and there who felt like getting _competitive_ every once in a while, and the dumbasses with the big mouths who didn’t last very long in this _specific_ field. 

"No, seriously. The bitch has more run of the roost than I thought." 

This is what brings us to the _now._ What ruined the Joker’s idyllic day and got his mind _whirring_ in. _All_. The. _Wrong._ Ways. 

"Shuddup, Bo." 

"For real, who knew she'd be calling the shots and having him _whipped—"_

The Joker doesn’t _do_ insubordination. He doesn’t _tolerate_ disrespect. And he sure as _fuck_ doesn’t _appreciate_ the sentiment that, somehow, he's gone _soft_ because he let you do some interior decorating. That he’s somehow bent to someone else's will. That he’s at their beck and call. _No one_ has that power over him. 

_No one._

And part of being God to The People means reminding them of that on occasion. Quashing the insurrection before it ever takes root. 

So, he did what any reasonable man would do. 

_And I’m_ all _about reason._

Walking slowly out of the office, head bent and his hands loose at his sides, he stands in the hall for a moment, deciding on the best course of action. Blood would be hard to scrub out of the floorboards, he doesn’t want to do that to you—ruin all of those _pretty_ little crafts you made. 

_See how_ considerate _I am?_

That’s another thing—he can _never_ be embarrassed. Embarrassment means there’s something he had to feel ashamed of. And the Joker doesn’t _do_ shame. 

_Nope. Y’see, it’s best to_ lean _into these things._

He walks to the kitchen, not acknowledging the now quiet men sitting on his couch, on the blanket you so _kindly_ took the time to make, and watches as the rust-coloured water floods the marred sink. He can feel their nervousness grow, the feeling of apprehension descending into fear, and he revels in it, shoulders squared and his head rolling to the side as he cracks his neck. He thought they would’ve learned from watching his work that silence and blind obedience would serve them better than electing to think they had a voice he cared about hearing. One of them talks, but he doesn’t listen. 

“Stand up,” Joker says to Moron No. 1, jerking his chin and gesturing his hand in a sweeping arc. 

The mook looks at him in confusion. “Wh-What?”

 _“Up,”_ he repeats. And, if there’s another thing the Joker doesn’t like, it’s _repeating himself._

Moron No. 1 obeys, looking at the other men for a read of the room, and he swallows when he sees there’s no support for him here. Before the bastard can blink, the Joker has him by the back of the neck, grip steadfast as a vise and just as merciless, and he drags him to the kitchen sink before he can do more than shout one word of confusion. He has the man's head under the water just as quick, one arm twisted behind his back as the Joker leans his weight on the man's neck. This isn’t his _favourite_ method—hard to see the light leaving their eyes and all that, but Moron No. 1 isn't worth the effort of a knife, and guns make it hard to stay _incognito,_ even in a place like the Narrows _._

 _Drowning’s the next best option._

Maybe not the most _merciful,_ but he's certainly done worse. Moron No. 1 is lucky, really, considering the level of insult. It isn't the most _quiet_ thing with him trying to _thump_ and _thrash_ around, his legs kicking out at the Joker's in a desperate attempt to stay alive and unsuccessfully attempting to push his head up for air, but the Joker prides himself on being stronger than he looks, and it doesn't take long for Moron No. 1 to stop moving at all. 

“Clean this up,” he says after he drops the body on the ground, wicking away the excess water trailing down his forearms before shaking his head back and forth rapidly, the fresh kill raising pleasant tingles along his back, goosebumps forming over his skin. The remaining men are quick to respond, dragging it out and down the stairs, the dead weight going _bump bump bump_ on each step. They'll do as they're told, probably take it to one of Gotham's many dump sites, and that's about as much thought to that idiot the Joker's willing to spare. 

He works his jaw back and forth, his limbs tense with energy that usually translates into a murder spree or two; that’s what it had done last time, left him carving a path made of flesh and bone and blood. His muscles are tight like stretched wire, and it’s just you and him now. 

He can do anything he wants to you, and you’d let him. 

It’s an intoxicating thought. _Tempting_ in all of its possibilities. He didn’t get the satisfaction of hearing the man scream, but he likes the sound of yours better. He didn’t make him bleed, but he could cut you and lick the wound dry and you’d _thank_ him. He didn’t get the pleasure of denying the man clemency, crushing any hope that he’d get out alive, but he could make _you_ afraid, watch you beg underneath him, try your _best_ to please him so he goes easy on you. 

The Joker’s hard just thinking about it. 

But with that tantalizing vision comes a wave of anger, surging and filling his lungs. Would he be able to stop himself if he went too far, keep himself under control? 

He isn’t sure. 

The smart thing would be to leave again, take a break until he’s certain his bloodlust won’t end the game prematurely, but leaving to work the rest of this out of his system isn’t an option; he’s already been gone for too long. And the truth is, he _wants_ to see you in pain, to make you compensate for this glaring _weakness_ he’s left himself open to. He wants to hear you say _sorry_ just so he can ignore it, keep going until there’s nothing left.

Killing you would certainly be the most _beautiful_ thing he’d ever do, he's sure of that. He's already thought about how he'd do it on more than one occasion, sometimes when he's fucking you, when you’re asleep next to him and holding his arm, draping yourself across his chest when he allows it; other times it’s when you smile too big or laugh so unabashedly, or try so hard to be _thoughtful, considerate,_ and when you’d brush your fingers across his cheek and gently touch his scars _._

But you can only kill someone once. 

_Unfortunately._

So he has to get _creative._

He knows ( _rationally_ ) this isn’t _directly_ your fault. Though it pains him to ( _mentally_ ) admit it, it’s his. He should’ve allocated some thought into this—how this experiment of playing _House_ was going to go, planned for the contingencies. But he hadn’t, and he's _enraged._

 _You_ don’t control him. _You don’t._

_Nuh-uh._

You're his, you know that now. The branded initial is an eternal guarantee that you'll _always_ know who you belong to. 

But it's not enough. It's never enough. 

He cannot abide the notion that because he has a toy— _because that’s what you are, a_ toy—at home it means he’s lost his edge, that you somehow hold sway over him, that there’s a holdout just for _you_ , a _special_ place that can be exploited. You can’t control what doesn’t exist, what he won’t _allow_ to exist. 

A dark thought forms in his mind, twisting and gnarling as it takes shape. 

He needs to own you— _all of you—_ and he _hates it._ Hates it more than he’s ever hated anything. Hates how it makes his blood thick, his mind cloudy. _Hates_ how it makes him feel like a liar. _Hates_ that he remembers these feelings at all. _Hates_ how he wants you to crave it—crave _him—_ more than the air you breathe. He needs you to submit in every way, no matter what he asks, no matter what it is. You aren’t _quite_ there—all that _cute_ hesitation and all. 

_Time to change that, hmm?_

And you have to want it. _Ask for it._ And he plans on making you _beg for it._

The Joker doesn’t miss how quiet things in the bedroom are after he's dealt with the idiot. You certainly heard the racket, could guess what happened. But you’ve gotten wiser, you don't come out to look, staying a good distance away while he cools off. 

_Such a smart cookie._

In most instances, that’s _exactly_ what you should do. But he has something else in mind. 

“Hey there, bunny,” he says as he opens the bedroom door, trying not to let his body language give away too much. 

You’re all bundled up in the duvet in just a nightshirt, eyes big and apprehensive. You look over his shoulder first before you manage to clear your throat and meet his gaze. “What was all that noise?” you whisper. 

He doesn’t know why you’re asking. The look in your eye tells him you already know the answer. He walks forward slowly, his steps heavy and deliberate, looking at you like you’re a skittish deer, and sits on the edge of the bed while you unconsciously push yourself further away from him. 

_Resistance. Adorable._

He might not kill _you_ , but there are other things he plans on killing tonight.

“C’mere,” he says. 

He sees the hesitation, the anxiety, but it doesn’t last long. You crawl from behind the blanket and sit next to him, your arm just brushing his. He doesn’t miss how you’re staring at his soaked shirt sleeves. He pulls you close, ignoring how you stiffen, and runs his fingers through your hair, wrapping a strand around his finger and tugging. You're breathing unevenly, battling between wanting to lean into him and being afraid, and you lose to the former when he brushes the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, grasping your chin and holding your head up to meet his gaze.

“I, uh… I have a little _game_ I want us to play. _Hmm?_ How’s that sound?”

You swallow and eye him nervously, pupils dilating and your heartbeat picking up speed. He sees your uncertainty, but he almost purrs when you put a hand on his chest, like you're reassuring yourself that he's not coiling up to strike, like you can read his intentions from the beat of his heart. You’re choosing your next words carefully, he can tell. 

_Smart._

“Why… are you looking at me like that?” 

He smiles, his hand trailing from your chin to rest on your throat, gently pressing on your windpipe, and the wolf in him is positively _ravenous._ “Oh, well, I’m _glad_ you asked, babygirl.” 

* * *

There are many things the Joker likes, maybe even _loves._ Most of it involves bones breaking, skin splitting, dark blood pouring between his fingers and pooling on the ground, shrieks of terror turning into babbling pleas, gasoline, pyrotechnics and dynamite, brass knuckles, guns, and knives— _knives knives knives._

_But…_

There’s also something to be said about _you._ Even searching his memory back as far as it can go— _which isn’t very far—_ the high you give him is a different kind of sweet than that of a kill. The kind where one taste isn’t enough, where he finds himself coming back for more. He isn’t sure if it’s how soft your skin is, how you smell like something he’s always known, the way you look at him, the way your eyes catch the light and hold it, or if it’s something deeper he can’t explain—the shape of you, the _feeling_ of you, the way you smile and he can see all that _restraint_ waiting to be unleashed, the vicious glimmer that builds in your chest when you're angry, that dark little pocket in your heart waiting to bloom and grow. He just knows that every change in expression, every look you give, every movement big and small—it’s ambrosia, and he plans on having you to the last drop. 

You listened to what he said and thought for a moment, and he gave you the time to deliberate, finding those last shreds of generosity in him and extending it. There’s plenty of time for cruelty later; you agreeing was paramount with this little exercise, so when you nodded, it was difficult not to tear into you right then and there. 

_Patience is a virtue._

And the amount of patience he had oughta make him a _saint_ ; it’s the only thing keeping him from tearing into you now. 

You're naked except for a pair of black stockings that reach mid-thigh, a _nice touch_ on your part, and you shake slightly from the chill in the room. You’re laid out so _nicely_ for him, too. Hands bound and tied to the headboard, your back elongated and arched, knees bent underneath you and ass high in the air with a few pillows propped under your stomach, bruises new and old on display with the various bite marks in staggered stages of healing. 

_Ready and waiting._

He knows you think you hate this kind of thing, being so _vulnerable,_ having so little control, but you know that, even if your hands were free, it wouldn’t make a difference. You _ache_ for this—the thrill of not knowing, of being in the power of someone else. _Him._ Getting you here always takes some coaxing, the insidious and gentle guiding hand that makes it feel like a choice when you know it isn't, that it's a compulsion, a drive, an instinctive desire to give in to him. 

And he plans on fanning that particular fire until it consumes you whole.

You whimpered a few times when he was positioning you, your skin flushed when as you tried to hide, but you still listened, looked at him with something close to trust in your eyes, silently imploring him to be _merciful_ if you ask.

_Foolish thing to do._

He runs a finger down the length of your spine, humming when you shiver. “You ready, babygirl?” He waits, trailing his hand to your ass and squeezing gently, his fingers tracing the crescent of your hip bone. 

You nod as much as your position allows, making fleeting eye contact before you can’t hold it any longer. “Mmm-hmm.” 

That’s enough for him. 

He takes off his tie first, the silk rubbing together as he pulls it from his neck to wrap it around yours. It’s loose— _for now—_ and he tries his _best_ to keep himself from laughing when you shake only to eye up his bare chest as he undoes the buttons of his shirt, and you unconsciously lick your lips. It always takes you _so_ _long_ to admit it, but you _really_ do love whatever it is he has to give you. The degradation of it. Being on display. Waiting for the pain and the subsequent ecstasy. You’re starting to live for it, live for _him._ Tonight won't be any different. 

“Relax, babygirl,” he says, leaning down close to your ear, his lips just hovering above your jaw, _“relax.”_

You take a stuttering breath when he undoes his belt, slowly sliding it out and setting it on the bed beside you. He isn’t sure if he’s gonna use it yet, but there’s nothing like the _thrill_ of mystery. Your eyes strain when he moves behind you, unable to look back at what he’s doing. He unbuttons his pants next, loud enough so you can hear his movements, before grabbing a box he’d meant to use a little further down the line and laying it next to the belt. 

_Let the games begin._

Getting on the bed behind you, he kneads the flesh of your hips and up your back, giving your muscles gentle pressure before releasing, his cock hardening as he looks down at you, the curves of your body, where your bones meet and your muscles strain. He’s always found his kicks in sadism, affirming his own life by ending those of others, embracing Death and laughing in its face—it’s what makes what he does so enjoyable. Killing is mindless, but violence is an art, a practiced form that takes time to get right. It’s a skill he’s perfected, but he doesn’t look at your body the same way, as something empty and hollow. No, you’re cut from marble, shaped by hands better than his, your edges smooth. 

You were flawless before, unmarred; but beauty doesn’t lie in perfection. It lies in ruin.

You might not see it yet, but it’s his calling to take the chisel to you, to break you open and shatter you, destroy the exterior to find that dark and bleeding and _angry_ core in you and unleash it and make you forget you were ever contained. 

“We’ll start small, hmm?” he murmurs, leaning down so you can feel his chest against your skin, his groin grinding into you slowly. 

“OK,” you breathe, nodding. 

He tries— _and fails—_ to not feel smug at how you arch into him, desperate for his flesh to touch every part of yours, how you moan as he sticks one finger inside your cunt. He’s barely done anything and yet you are literally _dripping_ in anticipation. He smiles against your skin, his ruined mouth pressed to your shoulder blade as he adds another finger and you gasp. 

“Tell me where you want it,” he says, his voice low and guttural. He almost giggles when you spasm around his fingers. You _like it_ when he sounds _scary,_ when all hints of softness and the human are gone, and his chest rumbles as he chuckles darkly.

“I-Inside me,” you pant, back bowing as you press your head into the mattress. 

“I can’t _hear_ you, babygirl.” He won’t let you hide. Gripping his tie wrapped around your neck, he pulls up, allowing him to see _all_ of you. “Say it, ah, _nice_ and _loud_ for me.” 

He loosens his grip long enough for you to catch your breath. “I—I want you inside me, Daddy, _please.”_

 _My little girl is so_ polite. 

Removing his fingers and sticking them in his mouth, savouring the taste of you, he snarls and takes his cock in his hand, rubbing it up and down your slit. He pushes against your entrance just enough to start slipping inside before taking it out to rub down to your clit, your hole clenching around nothing as you moan. 

“Be _specific,”_ he croons, repeating the pattern and holding you in place when you try to push your hips against him. 

“I want you—” You whine when he goes a little further only to pull out again, slapping your ass hard enough to leave a mark and make you barely suppress a scream when you try pushing back again. “I want your—your cock inside my—my pussy, Daddy, please— _please,_ I need it—” 

You bite back a cry when he rewards you by pushing the entirety of his cock inside you in one go, groaning when he’s balls deep in your throbbing cunt. 

It’s hard not to pound into you, to fuck you until your teeth knock together, until you bite your tongue and make it bleed, _cry,_ sob into the mattress, but he tightens his grip on the tie and pulls, waiting until you spasm around him as you fight for air before he moves, his pace consistent but rough. He’s glad that he came in you earlier—it means he can make this last. And he intends on fucking you until you _break._

Keeping one hand on the silk tie, the other grips your ass as he rides you, bottoming out every time until his hips are flush with yours, and his thumb presses against your other hole, the one he’s been saving, applying steady pressure until he gets the first knuckle past the tight ring of muscle. 

_“W-Wait!_ Wait, J—” you cry until he cuts you off with another hard tug of the tie and another push until his thumb is in you as far as it’ll go, the air leaving you as he keeps the pace _relentless_. 

You knew to expect this, you said _yes,_ and now isn’t the time for cold feet. 

“Don’t you worry,” he says, voice dropping a register until he sounds sinister. You like it, though, if your tightening pussy is anything to go by. “You’ll love it just like you _love_ everything else.” 

You whimper and a small line of drool leaks out of the corner of your open mouth, your eyes closed and brows furrowed together. He grips your throat with his hand now, pushing forward into you until he can kiss you, lap up the pooling saliva and suck and bite your tongue, and he adds another finger along with his thumb. 

And, _boy,_ do you _really_ tighten up then. 

He only removes his hand long enough to grab the bottle of lube from the box, pouring the cool liquid down and making you jump at the cold sensation, before he keeps going, making it three fingers he has pushed inside of you. You’re starting to cry from the intensity of it, all but screaming as you fight to catch your breath, and he can tell you’re about to cum. He picks up the pace, driving into you like he means to split you in half and finding himself enjoying the sensation of being able to feel himself move inside you, only having that little bit of sinewy tissue to separate his cock from his fingers. 

He can only imagine what he has planned next will feel like. 

_Ah, one word: Divine._

_“I—I can’t—I can’t—”_

You shriek when your climax hits you, your body going wild as it tries to find a reprieve from the overwhelming stimulation, your legs shaking as they give out, head thrown back and your spine arched to the point that the Joker’s sure it must hurt, but he fucks you through it, turning one orgasm into two. He’s come to enjoy it when you ask to cum, but he gives you a pass this time. Overstimulation is part of the game tonight, and he lets you writhe on his cock until you’re on the edge of the third wave before pulling out to keep himself from joining you. He can't quite tell if your groan is in relief or frustration that he's stopped, but he doesn’t care.

“So far so good, sweetheart,” he whispers in your ear when he leans down to push the hair from your sweaty forehead, kissing your cheek before rising. He rubs your back again, keeping the sensations present but gentle. It’ll make the pain all the sweeter. “You’re trying _so_ hard for me, aren’t you?” 

He knows he sounds like a patronizing ass, and it makes him grin when you summon the energy to nod. 

“Don’t tell me you’re all, ah, _worn out,”_ he says, giving your shoulders a squeeze, “We haven’t gotten to the, uh… _heh,_ best part yet, have we?” 

You shake your head, and he grips your ribcage to feel it expand and contract. He kisses your shoulder, letting you have something _soft_ to hold onto before he makes you unravel. He pushes you into the mattress as he sits up, adjusting your hips back into position, and digs into the box and takes one item out after another, making sure to leave them where you can see. He chuckles when your hands tighten into fists, testing how tight the bindings are. But you should know better—he might’ve not been a boy scout, but his knots are better than theirs _._

First, he pulls out a harmless enough vibrator—well, it _would_ have looked harmless if it wasn’t for the tube and pump attached to it. Second is a little vibrator just meant for your clit. The third is a switchblade, the knife already extended, and the fourth is an intimidating anal plug, and he licks his lips in anticipation when you groan in fear. 

“Where—where do you get these things from?" you ask, voice croaky from the breathplay, and you’re not shaking from the cold this time. 

"Uh… would you believe Amazon?" He titters at the glare you shoot him. 

“No, no I wouldn’t— _ah!_ ” 

Nothing like having something stuffing your cunt full to _shut you up._ He has the vibrator inside you, pushing it as far as it’ll go and leaving you incomprehensibly moaning. It’s not as big as he is, but that’ll change soon enough. You’re breathing hard, and he takes a moment to admire the _beautiful_ view, watching your cunt stretch and then try its best to keep it in when he pulls on the toy, how you quiver and shake. 

_“C’mon,_ what do you want?” he asks, pushing the toy back in and making you groan. Reaching to grab the second item, he attaches it to your swollen clit, pinching it on tight before turning it on the lowest setting. You gasp and cry out, pushing your hips back and raising them higher, eager for more. It isn’t long before you start to writhe, your climax building up again. “Where should my cock go this time? Where does Daddy’s cum belong, hmm?” 

He pushes his fingers back into you, resuming his previous work, stretching you, getting you ready. 

“I—I want you, Daddy,” you moan, bucking your hips back. “In-Inside me—your cum goes… always goes inside me.” 

“Mmm- _hmm,”_ he hums appreciatively, turning up the stimulation on your clit until you're almost screaming, and he licks the small trails of sweet sweat forming on your spine, enjoying the salty taste of you, the intoxicating smell of your lotion and the scent of your hair, all the things that make you _you_. He enjoys it so much he wants to destroy it, erase it from his memory. 

But he can’t, can he? 

“I want—I want your cock in—” 

_“Where?”_ he demands, moving his fingers faster, scissoring them open and moving with you when a violent shudder rips through your body. 

“I—I want it in my—my ass, _please—”_

“Of course you do.” His cock rubs the back of your thigh, soaking your stocking in precum, and keeps moving the vibrator inside you slowly, keeping the friction low until you’re on the brink of going _mad._ “Who do you belong to, babygirl?”

 _“You!_ You—only you!” 

He grins. Your answers come quickly ( _just like_ you _will for the next while_ ), desperation mounting as he slows down even further, reducing the dial on the vibrators and removing one finger after another from your ass.

“What are you?” he murmurs in your ear, rubbing the soft flesh of your hips and thighs before giving them a hard _smack_. 

“I’m—I’m yours—” A nice sentiment, but not _quite_ the answer he’s looking for this time. He replaces his hand with the belt, hitting your ass once with a quick _snap._ “I’m your— _ah!—_ I’m your whore—” you sob, trying to keep away from his reach only for him to laugh, dark and mocking, his large hand enough to grip your side and hold you still. 

_“C’mon,_ try harder for me, bunny _.”_ He hits your ass again, harder this time, the leather making a satisfying _smack_ and leaving behind a red welt. You cry out and writhe in pain, head buried in the crook of your arm as you tremble from head to toe. 

_“I’m your—y-your cumslut, Daddy!_ N-No more, no more— _please—”_ you whimper, sparing a glance up to search for him, to see if he'll listen. 

He will. When it suits him.

 _“Oh,_ you _certainly_ are,” he simpers, rubbing the swollen skin of your ass tenderly before hitting you again, hard enough to break blood vessels, and his smile can only be described as maniacal as your legs collapse from under you, arms shaking and trying to pull you closer to the head of the bed. 

_“No more, J—no more—"_ you scream, yelping as soon as his hands get anywhere close to your backside, and your chest racks with heaving breaths when he keeps you in place, always maintaining the presence that he's all there is, all you'll ever have. "I’m all yours, _please,_ no—no more _…”_

He smirks when you flinch as he massages your back, working into the tense muscles until you involuntarily relax, whiplashed from the switch, and you melt, just like you always do. "And what can I do with you, _hmm?_ C'mon, tell me, babygirl." 

You hiccup and _valiantly_ make the effort to raise yourself again, legs shaking all the while, and stare at him the best you can from over your shoulder, whimpering when his cock rests against your thigh, his thumb running down the side of your slit and pushing the vibrator inside you before it slips out. "Any… anything you want," you whisper, trembling when he turns up the dial, your pain giving way to the pleasure your needy cunt's radiating through you. "You can do— _mm_ … you can do whatever you want, Daddy," you breathe, a flush of heat pouring down your skin, making you roll your hips against his hands again. 

He hums his approval, giving the dials a bit more juice and watching with rapt attention how your muscles clench and spasm like he's got you hooked up to a live wire, your pussy dripping, the new bruises forming seemingly forgotten. You look positively _hedonistic,_ and he's never felt more infatuated with you, drunk on the sound of you—your taste, your smell, the _feeling_ you drive into him like a railroad spike through the brain. 

He vents his fury at the thoughts involuntarily flashing in his mind, inescapable and all-encompassing by pulling on the tie until you choke, face flushing crimson. "H-Hit me— _bruise me, use me—I don't care_ ," you wheeze, moaning when he takes his cock from your thigh and rests it on your ass, applying the smallest amount of pressure while you squirm. It would be the _merciful_ thing to let you adjust with a small, thin dildo first. But the Joker isn't merciful. He’s going to be the _only_ thing ever inside you until after he finishes claiming you completely. "I _like it_ —I like the pain. _Please, Daddy, I need you inside me—"_

“ _That’s_ my good girl,” he purrs, petting your hair until he's pushing himself into your hole, into the impossible tightness made even more intense for the vibrator shoved inside your cunt. He sees stars on the inside of his closed lids, bright bursts of something white-hot and scorching as you scream as he grips your hips hard and forces himself in another inch. He gasps and groans, feeling your body protesting at the intrusion, the resistance and pressure from your full cunt. "Try to _relax,_ hmm? Unless you _really_ want this to hurt." 

He only gives you a second to register his words, not really caring what comes out of your mouth right now. You gave him all the permission he'll ever need: you're _his_ —his to do with whatever he wishes, his to _hurt_ , his to _break_ , and he doesn't plan on stopping. 

With a roar that shakes your bones, he pushes the rest of his cock inside you, doubling over your back and driving you into the mattress as he supports his weight by gripping your shoulders. You're shrieking, but he can barely hear you, his mind entirely lost in how _tight_ you are, how he almost can't tell where his body ends and yours begins, how he can feel your soul fluttering in his hands, ready to be crushed if he feels like it. 

And he’s _so close_ to doing it, too. 

But he takes this one opportunity for a moment of calm, for the agonized writhing to quieten, for your full-body sobs to simmer into soft, pathetic whimpers, for your muscles to have their sole reprieve before he makes you forget what it means to be _sane._

"Last chance for second thoughts…" he murmurs playfully in your ear, his own chest stuttering as he adjusts, your ass gripping him until it drives the air from his lungs. He scowls at himself. What's he saying? He wouldn't let you back out of this even if it was your last request made with your dying breath, so _why did he offer?_

_Good goddamn question._

_No_. No—there's time for thought later, not now. He's about to start again when you make a small noise, and he strains to hear, leaning down close to catch the incoherent train of words spilling out of your mouth, amused at how your eyes are glazed and foggy, already senseless and he's barely gotten started. 

_"I… I like… like it when—when you hurt me,"_ you whisper into the mattress, your tears undermining just how much you mean that— _or reinforce, mm? My babygirl's a masochist, afterall—_ and serving to feed the monster in him. You _really_ shouldn't be so vocal for him to have all this free license, it speaks against you having much of a sense of self-preservation. Or maybe you don't have one at all. 

_That would make two of us._

Something feral and sinister and unrepentantly _mean_ breaks in his chest, and he laughs. " _Oh-ho_! If you're gonna be _this_ honest when I stick my cock in your ass," his laughter turns into a hearty groan when he starts the hard work of pulling out, drawing back until just the tip of him is still inside, _"I might have to do this more often, hey, babygirl?"_

You’re on the verge of hyperventilating, and he doesn’t plan on making it any better. Attached to the vibrator inside you is a long tube with a pump on the end of it. He squeezes down, transferring his grip from your ribs to the sheets for fear of breaking them, roaring like a rabid dog as you get impossibly tighter as the vibrator inflates inside you, expanding little by little until you scream.

_“Full—too full—Daddy, I can’t, I can’t!—”_

He gives it another two pumps for good measure and grips your hips, telling himself to focus on breaking your psyche and not your bones. He can’t hear you anymore when he pushes back inside you, inch by painstaking inch, until it’s impossible to go any further. He almost feels like he’s been concussed, like he’s legitimately suffered a blow to the head. 

“Oh, babygirl,” he breathes, his muscles shaking and pulsing, and he doubles over, unable to hold himself up and focus on not cumming at the same time, “you _really_ don’t know what you do to me.”

He’s sure you can’t hear him, you’ve been thrashing and shaking in one long, drawn-out orgasm from what he can tell, and he reaches down to turn up the dials to their highest setting. If he wasn’t pressing you into the mattress, your body would’ve jumped from the bed like a woman possessed, and his legs between yours keeps them from closing, and it’s only distantly that he feels you kicking him, trying to get away from what’s so overwhelming.

Fucking you becomes a sort of dream, one rooted in napalm being set alight under his skin and his vision distorting until the world’s a blur, out of focus and unreal, the colours too bright and the black encroaching until it’s just you and him on the bed, like it’s always been this way. He’s getting drunk on you, like you really are becoming part of him, like you’ve always been his. He’s never been a spiritual man, but he thinks this may be the closest he’ll ever come to it, that the way to that allusory divine is through _you,_ that you really do make him God, even when he’s reduced to nothing more than an animal, driven by the savage need to ravish you, to destroy you so he can put you back together in his image, more terrible and beautiful than you could ever be on your own. 

His creation. A missing part of his soul brought to life. _His._

Nothing smart bubbles up to rest on his tongue, to growl barbs into your ear, for his poison to seep into your skin. It’s just your body writhing and rolling with his, insensible to anything but one another. He cums once—it’s hard and draining and seems to take part of his life force with it, winding him like a bat to the ribs. Moving inside you gets easier, your hole stretching and slick with his cum, and he can’t stop himself, stop his hips from pumping in and out, even when the stimulation threatens to overwhelm him, too. 

His cock stays hard in you, like you can’t bear for this to end either, and he doesn’t know how long this lasts, like time loses its meaning. He thinks you blackout once, finally overcome, but it doesn’t take long for your body to vibrate and tremor like a landslide about to fall, the bindings around your wrists digging in hard enough to cut your skin. 

He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stop. 

He’s never felt so separated from his body, so completely _engrossed_ in a feeling, and it’s almost mindlessly that he grabs the knife left discarded beside him, dragging it against the skin along your shoulder blade and tracing its curve. The skin splits and weeps, and he presses his mouth to it, taking parts of you while you take parts of him, the sharp taste of metal and the sweetness that is your blood coats his tongue, spills over the edges of his mouth, illuminating his scars as the remnants of his greasepaint transfers onto your spine, drinking the thick liquid and relishing how it coats his throat. One hand grips your throat, tie forgotten, and the other clamps down on your shoulder, his fingers digging into the scar in the shape of his initial above your heart. 

When he cums again, he almost blacks out himself, his blood surging in his veins like he’s hemorrhaging, like he’s dying. 

And he can’t get enough. 

Air fills his lungs in heaving gasps when he finally stills, his softening cock still inside you, his muscles aching and his body covered in sweat. You’re drenched, too, and it takes his remaining strength to hold himself up enough as to not smother you. It’s a short struggle to reach around you to turn off the vibrators, and your body sags in relief, your sobs only reaching him now. He isn’t sure how gentle he is being that he can’t feel his fingers, but he takes the one off your clit and deflates the one stretching your cunt to the breaking point, groaning in relief when the vise-like grip your ass has on him relents as the vibrator finally slips out of you. 

He pushes himself up, muscles shaking, and lets his cock slip out of you, leaning back on his haunches to watch a thick dollop of cum, slightly pink with what must be blood, start to leak out of you. It’s with barbarous cruelty, the instinctive desire to make sure the break in you is total, that he takes the untouched anal plug and works it inside you, paying _special_ mind to push his cum back where it belongs. 

You squeal but are too weak to move away, and it’s with that same sense of cruelty that he says in your ear, "You do look _beautiful_ when you're a mess, babygirl. When you’re _ruined_ for me."

You whimper at that, managing to turn enough to the side to look at him. Your eyes are bloodshot, lips swollen from your prolonged screaming, but he doesn’t see any hate or anger, only the desperate need to have him put you back together. 

“Did… did I do OK?” you whisper, voice hoarse and tears spilling over your lashes. 

He wants to kiss your mouth and strangle you all at once, and he doesn’t understand _why. This_ is what he wanted. _This_ is how he wanted you to be. But it’s with a vicious sense of contempt—he’s not sure for who; if it’s you or him—that he takes the knife and cuts the restraints and hoists you up and carries you to the bathroom, depositing you on the edge of the tub and ignoring your cries of pain and turning on the shower. You yelp when the hot water hits your skin, but he makes you sit on the floor of the tub even when you splutter when the stream hits your face. He hops in behind you long enough to rinse off himself, to make sense come back in his brain, but the steam only seems to fog it, the sight of the blood pouring from the wound on your shoulder feeding his sense of frenzy like a shark. He snarls in frustration and you flinch, wincing when you turn to look up at him. 

It’s like your eyes are making an accusation you don’t mean to, spearing him with something he doesn’t recognize save for the sensations of pain it leaves him with. If he felt ready to go on a killing spree before, it’s doubly true now. He's never wanted to kill you more, right here and right now. It would make things so much _easier_ , would solve so many of the problems he was willingly surrounding himself with. 

But he doesn’t act on it. He leaves you sitting there, staring after him and trying to say something, soaking the floor when he doesn’t bother towelling off. He needs _space,_ where he can’t breathe you in, can’t see your face, can’t hear your voice. Turns out it’s useless anyway. There’s nowhere he can go in here without seeing something that reminds him of you. It makes his heart harden, turn cold and mean. He tells himself he feels nothing when you drag yourself out of the shower twenty minutes later, barely making it back to the bed and stumbling the whole way. 

_Good. Let her be miserable for a while longer._

He fully intends on leaving you there, crying on the bed. _Alone_.

Spending the night in his office where it’s _quiet_ and he can clear his head is what he craves the most now. He’s slept in worse places. He resolves on this, makes it his steadfast goal, but, as he stands in the kitchen and downs an entire bottle of water, his eyes involuntarily drag back to the living room, landing on the blanket you made, the unfinished sweater he threw in a corner earlier and didn’t bother picking up. 

He won’t call it _guilt;_ it’s _curiosity_ that takes him into the room, causes him to lean down and pick up your shoddy workmanship. He sighs and doesn’t know why. 

You really did make it with him in mind—the sleeves are long, the torso baggy, and the colour of the yarn almost matches those found in his suit. He’s not sure what possesses him to put it on, but he does, even if the collar is a _smidge_ too tight— _or I have a big head—_ and the feeling of the fabric wholly unfamiliar. He can’t remember if anyone’s ever taken the time to make him something like this in his life, if anyone ever bothered to care enough. 

_Fucking_ fuck _fuck_ fuck _._

The Joker isn’t capable of shame— _been down that road, it doesn’t work so hot anymore—_ and he thought his sense of responsibility, for _anything,_ was completely dead, but he isn’t sure what to call this heavy feeling in his chest, this sensation that tugs him back to your shared room. He wants to hold onto his anger, but he can’t seem to find it, like you pulled it out of him. 

_Some iron resolve you’ve got there. Goddamnit._

That should be enough for him to want to end you, shouldn’t it? Taking something from him, making him doubt himself like this. It would be so _easy_ to do it now. You don’t have the strength to even fight him on it; he wouldn’t have to _try_. 

But he finds he doesn’t want to. 

It’s endearing how much your tear-stained face brightens when he comes back in the bedroom wearing the sweater, and he can’t find it in himself right now to hate you or himself for it. The knitted fabric doesn’t totally cover his stomach yet, only going just past his navel, but it’s like you wanted—it’s warm, the yarn softer than he’s used to. He wants to throw it in your face that he doesn’t _need_ these things, that he doesn’t _need_ you, that this is all fun and games and about getting a few good fucks out of you. 

He doesn’t say any of that, though. It’s a surprise that he finds himself wanting it. Wanting you. Wanting what you have to give.

The Joker decides to ponder this when his brain isn’t hazed with a post-orgasm high, this stifling _irrationality,_ when he can strangle the sentimentality in him once again. So, he keeps scowling, giving away nothing as he tosses a water bottle at you and slides into bed, his bare skin still wet, and props head against the bed frame and staring at the wall. 

“Do you like it?” you whisper, barely audible for how much you’ve lost your voice, your throat already turning purple from where he choked you.

He says nothing, only wrapping an arm around you to draw you closer to bury his face in your hair, breathing deeply, his chest pleasantly heavy. You shift as much as you’re able— _which isn’t much—_ the tips of your fingers caressing the side of his neck and you sniffle. 

“I… I can make you another one if you want?” you try again. 

Rolling his eyes and groaning, the insistent and violent urge to shove you off the bed and out the door makes his muscles tense and you hold your breath. It’s a severe assertion of will, but he stays where he is, makes himself pet your hair, run his thumb over your cheek. He doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t stop until he feels your breathing deepen, the tell-tale and quiet sound of you snoring alerting him that you can’t hear him anymore. 

_Fuck_ fuck _fuck._

His mind never shuts off, though, does it? Never lets him have that mindless moment of solace. Well, barring when he’s buried in you. It’s still working, still trying to find answers in this, an explanation, something he never thought he’d look for again— _reason._

_See what you do to me? Should've killed you months ago_. 

Love and hate are the same, aren't they? Two trees sharing the same root. There is no creation without destruction, taking one part to make it into something new. Life doesn’t exist without death, even if one hates the other as much as its opposite desperately craves it. He might hate you, but maybe it’s something else, too. Something he doesn’t have to eradicate completely.

“Yeah.” Digging into the nightstand beside him, he pulls out a carton of cigarettes and sticks one between his lips. Lighting it and breathing deeply, he lets the smoke and nicotine take away the rest of his lethal edges for now, allows it to make him to sink into the bed. He sighs, watching how your lips part and your brows relax, and his anger ebbs into something he doesn’t understand _._ “Yeah, I like it. Almost as much as I like you.”

Saying it to you when you’re asleep is like never having said it at all; it’s something he can forget—will _make_ himself forget—but he settles for holding you like this for just a while longer. 

**Author's Note:**

> Soooooo... I got impatient and so here we are, haha. I hope you enjoy this, I think it's a bit of a mess (like my life, oh my lord), but I hope it lives up to expectations 🥺. Thank you to the folks who submitted requests, and definitely don't be shy, let me know what you wanna see! I'm planning on doing a lot more of these, so there's lots of opportunity to work some things in! 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and a big, special thank you to jasminau for being such a wonderful and staunch supporter and friend. This one's for you! 💖
> 
> Feedback is always welcome and appreciated!


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